with a mischievous glance, but in a low tone, aware of the listening ears above,—
"That is, if you will consent to dispense with the fire-bucket!"
Quimby started, and dropping the article in question, as if it had suddenly turned red-hot, ejaculated,—
"Bless my soul! really I—I beg pardon, I am sure!" then bashfully offering his arm, they went out, while Miss Kling balefully shook her head.
"So, Celeste will insist upon it that you are in love, because you tripped and fell down stairs!" Nattie said, by way of opening a conversation as they walked along—a remark that did not tend to lessen his evident disquietude. And having now no fire-bucket, he clutched at his necktie, twirling it all awry, not at all to the improvement of his personal appearance, as he replied,—
"Oh! really, you know! its no matter! I—I am used to it, you know!"
"Used to falling in love?" queried Nattie, with raised eyebrows.
"No—no—the other, you know, that is—" gasped Quimby, hopelessly lost for a substantive. "I mean, it's a mistake, you know," then with a desperate rush away from the embarrassing subject, "Did
